by EC Sheedy
The soft disconnect of the phone left Dan alone with thoughts of his murdered wife and now motherless three-year-old daughter, a daughter suddenly left in the sole care of a father who’d spent far too much time north of north, the twilight zone of Mother Earth—enough time to cost him his marriage. What he had to do now was make sure it didn’t cost him his daughter.
He hit zero on the phone pad and waited for the front desk. By the time they picked up, he was brushing at his eyes. He coughed to loosen his tight throat, ordered what was probably the only cab in town, hung up, and packed with deft but hurried movements. What passed for an airstrip was maybe a half hour away. If he could get a charter to Calgary or Edmonton, getting stateside from there wouldn’t be a problem.
He brushed at his eyes again. Tears, for God’s sake. Too damn little and too damn late. He had a kid to take care of, and he intended to do it right, give her everything in him he had to give. Tears wouldn’t help the cause.
He might have failed Holly; he didn’t intend to repeat the mistake with Kylie.
When the phone rang, despite its being a mere arm’s length away, Camryn ignored it. Slumped on the sofa, a pillow clasped to her belly, she stared blank-faced at the TV, specifically at an ancient black-and-white movie where every man wore a tuxedo, none of the women had pores, and both drank endless martinis while adrift in a wavy sea of cigarette smoke.
The martinis were the most appealing. There were only two problems with acting on that thought: it was barely noon, and she hated martinis. She pulled the pillow closer.
“You doing okay?” her father asked, coming in from the kitchen with two sandwiches and two glasses of milk. He’d been away on one of his short trips until yesterday. When she’d asked him where he’d gone, all he’d said was “business.” His answer brought some relief, because she’d worried that it might be some medical problem he wasn’t telling her about, but when she asked, he’d denied it, told her he’d never felt better. He set a plate in front of her and sat down in Craig’s chair.
Craig would hate that, she thought, but she didn’t care, couldn’t think why she should. All she felt was flat, gray, and eerily disconnected.
Here she was, her life sinking to toilet level, and all she could summon up was a moody stew, equal parts despair, relief, and inertia. Either she was a damn strange woman, who could watch her husband walk out without a whimper, or she was slow on the uptake and a tsunami of emotions would hit when she least expected it.
“I asked you a question, Cammie. You okay?”
“Fine.” She picked up her sandwich, put it down. Craig had been gone for three months. It felt like two years, and worse yet, it felt irritatingly . . . right. The problem was, she was fine, and she shouldn’t be. She should be in the throes of a mental breakdown, her pillow should be soaked with tears, her heart should have a crack in it Grand Canyon-wide. He had been her best friend . . .
Maybe that’s all he ever was—a friend. Maybe I just glommed onto him when my bio-clock ticked toward midnight. Maybe I married him because he was my friend, because he was there and no one else was. If that were true, she didn’t like herself very much for it, because decent people didn’t go around messing up their friends’ lives.
“You don’t look fine.” Her dad took a bite of his sandwich and reached for the TV remote control at the same time. “You look like you want to drink blood. Try that instead.” He nodded absently at the glass of milk, then looked at the TV screen.
Flick.
Gone were the women without pores, the handsome men in tuxedos, the perfectly chilled martinis, replaced with burly men and a ball which they pursued with bloodlust and would apparently die to defend. She turned away from the screen. Was this her life now? Watching daytime sports with her dad?
She shot him a glance, suddenly irritated.
When he’d arrived home the morning after Craig left, she’d been in the kitchen, sobbing like an idiot. In much worse shape than she was in now. But when she told him Craig had walked out, all he’d said was, “Not surprised.” Then, as if sensing more words were necessary, he’d added, “You’ll be fine. Right?”
When she’d nodded through her tears, he’d looked relieved, trotted himself off to the den, stayed there, and avoided her for the rest of day. Not that she expected hugs and assurances. That had never been her taciturn father’s style—not before he lost his fortune, and certainly not after.
When Trent Derne, a man who’d had it all, a man who drank thousand-dollar bottles of wine, flew in his own private jet, and smoked a million Cuban cigars, lost it all, he’d lost himself. He’d been forty-two, now he was sixty-three, and he’d spent the last third of his life dreaming and scheming how to get it all back. The process of stumbling from one get-rich-quick idea to the next, each effort more desperate, more costly, than the last had cost him his first wife, Camryn’s mother, Rosalie, and two more after that.
Now he was living in his daughter’s house. The one paid for by a small trust fund he’d set up for her at the insistence of her mother when Camryn was ten years old. It was all that remained of a fortune in the tens of millions.
So here he was in front of her TV, pretending this was a day like any other, pretending they had a normal father-daughter relationship. Pretending Camryn’s husband hadn’t walked out on her . . .
If her mother weren’t somewhere in Europe on her first real vacation in years, Camryn would have called her to talk. But there was no reason to ruin her mom’s holiday. Camryn also knew, that if she did connect with her mother, they’d end up arguing about her father. Rosalie had been dead against her letting Trent stay with them, convinced it would cause trouble. Way too much room in there for I-told-you-so’s, which made calling her mother another bad idea in a landslide of them. She’d get through this, and she’d get through it alone.
She thought about calling Holly again, but once was enough for that moan. Holly was so distracted these past few months, it was like talking to a stranger rather than your best friend. Something was bugging Holly, but whatever it was, she refused to talk about it. Whenever Camryn asked her what was wrong, all she’d say was “man problems” and insist she was close to working them out. No, she wouldn’t call Holly—or Gina. Because if Holly was standoffish of late, Gina was all the way off, and she’d never liked Craig, anyway. When Camryn told her he’d walked out, Gina’s only comment as “I always thought he was kind of weak.” No, definitely not Gina.
Restless, she got to her feet. “I’m going for a walk.” Trent didn’t take his eyes from the game on the television. “Want me to wrap up that sandwich for later?” “Sure.” She was at the door when the phone rang.
She picked up, and listened. “Oh my God. No!” Her legs turned rubbery and she placed a hand on the table for balance. “Oh, dear God . . .” She let the words trail off, her lungs pumping crazily. “Oh, Paul…”
Her dad looked up, his expression flatly curious. “What?”
She lifted a hand, staying his question, and closed her eyes against the shock and disbelief warring in her head. She concentrated, tried to assimilate what she was hearing. Her breath jammed in her throat as she listened.
Shot! Died instantly. Funeral in a day or two. .. as soon as they release the body. No idea who did it.
“And Kylie?” she said, when she found her voice. “How’s Kylie? . . . Good . . . Yes. Of course, Boston. Right. I’ll be there . . . No, don’t worry. I’ll call Gina . . . Oh my God, Paul, I’m so very, very sorry.”
She clicked off, let the hand holding the phone drop to her side, and stood like a wax figure, incapable of movement.
“Was that Paul Grantman?”
She nodded dumbly. “It’s Holly. Holly’s dead.” The words felt like ice on her tongue, unreal.
“My God. When?”
“The day before yesterday.” She stared at him, her eyes unseeing through a wash of tears. “She was . . . murdered, Dad. In the park. Shot to death.” Camryn took a faltering step away from the tele
phone table, sat on the edge of the chair she’d just left.
“Did they get the guy? Do they have a line on him?”
She shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She couldn’t think about justice, about getting anyone. Not yet. Holly was gone. Justice may, or may not, come later, but either way it wouldn’t bring back her childhood friend.
Standing, she brushed at her eyes, rubbed them, and took a couple of deep breaths. “I’ve got to pack. Call Gina. Make arrangements. The funeral’s in Boston.”
Trent nodded, knowing the Grantman family well enough to understand the reason for Boston. “Where her mom’s buried.”
“Yes.” She stopped, memories shooting through her, hurting her mind. She let the tears fall. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Holly’s been part of my life forever. Her and Gina. Always there.” She gulped in some air, tried not to think about Gina, how she’d take this news. But, then, these days she didn’t know how Gina would take anything. She hoped it wouldn’t be this horrible news that would bring them together again, close the distance Gina had kept from her since returning to the lake. To Delores.
He nodded. “Since you were eight. When we moved in across the street from the Grantmans. About the time Grantman and I became partners.” His face went tight.
She let the Grantman remark pass, having learned long ago not to go there. “Six. We were six. We started school together. Gina came later. First year of high school.”
Her father nodded, then raised his pale eyes to hers. “Remember the time the two of you went to that dude ranch in Arizona? Holly tried to help you up on that horse . . . sent you flying off on the other side.” He stopped. “I think you were maybe twelve or so.” He paused, and his voice cracked when he added, “She was a nice little girl. Those were good days.”
Camryn nodded, surprised by her father’s clear memory of that time—a time she barely saw him. She quelled the lump in her throat and pulled his memory close, tried to hold on to it instead of the agony in her heart. “I broke my little finger.” They’d lived two houses apart then, went to the same school, the same camps. Like sisters. Their fathers were in business together. “Yes,” she said. “They were good days.”
Through her tears, she looked at her dad. “Shall I make the reservations for two?”
She could see his withdrawal, his face turning sullen. “No.”
“This is about Holly, Dad. It’s not about Paul. Surely you can put that . . . business behind you long enough to attend her funeral.”
“Doesn’t work that way. Not for me, and not for Grantman. That man ruined me and enjoyed doing it. Nothing will clean away the bad blood between us. Even looking at his smug, rich face would make me puke. I won’t be a hypocrite, Camryn.”
“Dad …”
He shook his head, looked away from her, back to the TV wasteland. “You run along, call Gina. Make your arrangements. I’m sorry about Holly. Sorry you lost a friend. But when it comes to that bastard Grant- man, I don’t give a rat’s ass what he feels.”
Chapter 4
Gina Solari said good-bye to Camryn, set the phone down, and put her hand over her mouth. Holly dead. Murdered!
It was as if her world had tilted.
Strange, thinking about Holly being gone. For good.
When she’d talked to her last, Holly had been full of plans for her time in Boston. All happy and excited. But, then, Holly was always happy. Always beautiful, always rich, always thin, always . . . everything. Now she’d be always dead.
Gina’s heart jumped, then beat unevenly for a few minutes; she pressed her hand against her chest. A chill gripped her, as if a window had opened to winter.
Then, as they inevitably did, her blurred, stormy thoughts turned to Adam, what he’d think, how he’d feel, what he’d do now that Holly was dead—gone forever. Holly had told her it was over between them, but Gina didn’t believe her. What was between Holly and Adam never ended, it simply ebbed and flowed; cold, then torrid; white-hot, then frigid— but always there. Always pulsing. No one knew that better than Gina.
Now death had ended that hellish bond once and for all. A dark smile twisted Gina’s lips when she thought of Adam in a world without Holly.
She prayed he’d hurt, that Holly’s death would be cold steel in his bloodless chest, plunging, twisting, turning . . . She hoped he’d feel for the first time in his sex-driven, selfish, charmed life.
Sighing, she pushed thoughts of Adam aside, as she would a thousand times more before the day was done. She hated the way he stayed with her, infested her mind, gnawed on her heart. She hated him. Craved him. And it sickened her.
Taking her hand from her chest, she filled her lungs. The usual dust-laden scent of the house assailed her nose. There were no tears, nothing resembling grief for her friend. No, it was more like the dank cavern inside her had warmed, lightened, and in an odd way settled. She blinked. Definitely no tears.
Camryn wouldn’t understand, would think her mad or cruel—and maybe she was. But Camryn didn’t know everything, and Gina had no intention of telling her. Too late for that, not to mention pointless—like everything else in Gina’s life. Let Camryn go on thinking Gina loved Holly as much as she did. Gina would not cry over Holly’s dead body.
It was Adam’s turn to grieve, and there was a pitifully small amount of justice in that.
“Who was that? What did they want? If it was one of those awful telemarketer people, I hope you gave them what-for.” The loud, deep voice came from the room at the top of the stairs, the room that sat house-center, like the crux of a spider web, the place of alertness, of sentry. Possession. It was the voice of her mother, Delores Maria Solari.
“It was Camryn.” Gina spoke from the bottom of the stairs, her hand fused to the newel.
“What did she want? Still looking to buy my Waterford for nothing, I’ll bet.”
“It wasn’t about your crystal.” Gina sucked up her annoyance, the heat of her frustration. Delores was her penance. Her chosen punishment. You didn’t talk back to your punisher: you either bore them or killed them. Or you punished back by never letting them get under your skin, no matter how sharp their scalpel.
“Good, because it’s not for sale.”
No, Gina thought, better they sink under the weight of the dust accumulating on them. She rubbed the newel. Hard. “You’ve made that clear, more than once. I’m sure she’s got the message.” Delores had been suspicious of Camryn since her last visit, when she’d made the mistake of praising her extensive Waterford collection.
Camryn ran Glass Finders, a company that specialized in locating rare china, glass, and crystal. She’d started it herself and now worked through a network of women who lived in just about every large city in the country. She called them “tracers.” When a customer wanted something, Camryn put out the word, and between their efforts and contacts, plus her own inventory and network, even the rarest pieces could be found. She shipped worldwide and worked from home, like she’d always planned to, so she’d be around for her kids.
Gina knew Camryn wasn’t getting rich, but she was doing well enough. Her heart kicked at her again. Like Holly, Camryn always did well, albeit for different reasons: Holly because she was born beautiful and rich with a daddy who took care of her, and Camryn because she had smarts and the energy to match. Yes, everything came up roses for Camryn, too, although she wasn’t as showy about it. But she didn’t get those kids she wanted, and her marriage to that boring Craig Bruce was a disaster. Gina took solace in that.
“And she’d better not be angling for another damned visit. I’m not ready for that. Not ready at all.” Her mother’s comments were followed by the sound of her wheelchair bumping over the raised sill at her door, then its squeak as it rolled over the scarred oak floor, stopping at the top of the stairs. “Well, what did she want?”
Gina took her hand from the stair post and looked up the stairs; Delores glared down at her, her expression sour. “A friend of ours was . . . killed.” She knew it irri
tated Delores when she wasn’t specific, so it was natural to withhold information. “Camryn phoned to tell me about the funeral arrangements. The service is in Boston.”
“You’re not going.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“Who got killed? Ah, Boston. Has to be that stupid Holly Grantman girl. Always was a brainless wonder.” Delores fired down her vitriol, her face pale and tight with distaste, and rolled her chair onto the lift. She cursed when it did its usual getting-started lurch.
The lift carried her down, snagging and bumping on the fourth stair from the top as it always did, then complaining the closer it came to the last. Her mother wasn’t overweight, but she was tall, close to six feet, and large-boned. She descended slowly, drifting down like a giant crow. Gina stepped away from the stairs, away from the clank and whir of the chairlift.
Delores rolled herself off the lift, straight toward Gina. “So . . . was it Holly?”
She wasn’t surprised her mother had guessed correctly. Delores didn’t miss much, and her sixth sense was second to none, except maybe Camryn’s. Gina’s senses, sixth and otherwise, shut down months ago. Now it took all her effort to look and act normal while her insides housed snakes, pain, and bleakness.
“Yes, it was Holly. She was out for a run and—”
“Spare me the details. I’d prefer lunch.”
Gina clenched her jaw. “Fine.” Delores Solari, with her height, broad shoulders, and straight bearing, used to be imposing, regal. Until a badly aimed bullet grazed her spine during an argument with one of her lovers over which of them was the most unfaithful; it was the night imposing became cruel and regal became dictatorial.
“I should send a card, I suppose.” She frowned as if annoyed. “Paul will be a damned wreck. That spoiled girl had the wool pulled over his eyes well enough, even if she did have the brains of a rutabaga.” Her mother went on, setting her mouth into a mean line. “Running alone, no doubt.” She snorted. “No surprise she got herself killed. Just asking for trouble.”
